


The Vantage Point

by urbanconstellations



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: 1960s AU, AU Metal Arm, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes & Peggy Carter Friendship, Fluff, Historical References, M/M, Pining, Protective Bucky Barnes, Reporter Steve Rogers, Stubborn Steve Rogers, Swearing, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, journalist steve rogers, that's why the mature rating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 06:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14995148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urbanconstellations/pseuds/urbanconstellations
Summary: Steve Rogers is a determined young journalist for the New York Times. When he is offered the opportunity to report on president John F. Kennedy's motorcade through Dallas, Texas Steve is ecstatic. The day goes south as things take a violent turn and the president is assassinated as Steve watches. When things don't quite add up, Steve takes it upon himself to find who really killed JFK. Things are never quite what they seem, and Steve has to decode the truth as fast as he can. A photograph of a man with a metal arm may hold the answers Steve is looking for, but he'll have to do some digging first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello! I am so excited to finally post this one! 
> 
> Gigantic thank yous to: buchahnans and paint-stained-heart for their beautifully adorable art and invaluable beta skills. 
> 
> Note: All historical events mentioned did happen in one form or another, though some are slightly changed to fit more smoothly into the plot.
> 
> Check out buchahnans' art on Tumblr!!

 

**November 20, 1963**

Steve Rogers knew exactly what came next.

“The basis of quality journalism is connection. The tie between content and reader. Your words must exude what you mean and camouflage what you don’t. A story is the air you breathe. I expect you to treat it as such. But a word of caution: The second you only observe, you lose your humanity. You cannot stand still. You cannot ignore what is in front of you. You take part, and you unlock the possibility of churning out better reporting. But do not get too attached. You have a job to do. And for Christ’s sake, stop tapping that pencil!”

Steve had heard Peggy’s spiel to the new interns about a thousand times. The first time, he’d been one. Young and twitchy, ready to run like the world was ending if only to get Peggy the articles she needed. Now he was her left hand man, running _toward_ the end of times since, after all, it would get him a better story. Steve smiled over the rim of his coffee mug and set off on the trail back to his office, still musing over his climb up the ranks.

“Steven! I need to speak with you when I get back,” Peggy called from behind him.

“Sure thing, Peg.”

Steve wound his way through the room. The persistent _click clack_ of typewriter keys bounced off the frantic haze of cigarette smoke that surrounded the writing room. Papers shuffled and shouts rang across the space. Steve took a deep breath and caught a whiff of the coffee-flavored tang that always hung just off-center of his senses. Steve smiled as he slipped into his office.

Tony was already waiting for him. The wily young journalist’s dark hair stuck out in about sixty-five different directions, while his cigarette dropped ash into a half-empty mug of coffee. Steve shook his head with a light sigh. He wasn’t exactly sure how Tony had become so adept at reporting. But he had, so Steve let him be.

“Hey there, badass,” Tony drawled as he threw a leg over the arm of the green velvet chair he’d commandeered.

“How can I help you, Tony?” Steve smiled and sat at his desk.

Tony immediately came out with, “Y’know, Peg’s gonna ask you to cover Kennedy’s swing through Dallas, right?”

Steve’s eyes went wide. “Where the hell did you hear that, Stark?”

“Coffee machine’s an enlightening place.”

★★★★★

Steve sat back in his squeaky leather chair. He was surprised, to put it simply. Steve had a reputation, one he still wasn’t sure how to classify. He always got the story, but his means were certainly open to...questions.

“Alright, I’ll bite. Who told you?”

Tony gulped down the rest of his coffee, closing his eyes for a moment for effect. Steve was just glad he could cringe at the thought of all those ashes going down Tony’s throat without being seen. Finally, the man spoke.

“Bruce pulled me over, and he goes, ‘Y’know, Steve’s gettin’ the JFK story?’ And I said, ‘No shit!’ And Bruce nods all somber and shit, and goes, ‘Peg left the folder on her desk. Got Rogers’ name on it.” Tony finished, looking mighty proud of his recollection.

Steve rolled his eyes.

“So you’re taking a folder with my name on it for gospel? I thought you were a reporter,” Steve griped.

Tony heaved a sigh and somehow managed to throw himself further over his chair.

“There is only _one,_ and I repeat, _one_ story Peggy’s been workin’ on rounding up this week. And only _one_ reporter is gonna be chosen to take a hike to Dallas to catch it. We all know you’re her favorite liability, so the pieces fit. How’s _that_ for reporting?” Tony snarked.

Arms crossed over his chest, Steve pondered the equation laid before him. It fit, if he was honest.

“But that’s-”

“Huge,” Tony finished.

Before Steve got the chance to think it over even more, the newest intern, a skinny, highly-caffeinated kid with huge glasses came pouring in.

“Mister Rogers.”

“Peter, you can call me Steve,” He replied, ignoring Tony’s laughter.

“Um, uh- Steve, Miss Carter wants to see you,” Peter stammered out.

Steve smiled and silently wished the intern luck.

“Thanks, Peter.”

The intern in question nodded lightning fast and turned to leave before Steve stopped him with a parting thought.

“Maybe lay off the coffee, kid.”

The almost-run to Peggy’s office was the best Steve had felt all week. This was...new. This was a chance that Steve could roll with. The president was taking a trip through Dallas, a nice little motorcade, and Steve had the possibility to be  the eyes and ears of the _New York Times_. This was a kind of thrill that never got old. A privilege great and rare. Steve halted in front of Peggy’s door. His bright blue eyes went wide. A career-changing story almost in his hands. He knocked once on the door and went in. Peggy set down her coffee cup at his presence.

“Steve. Please, sit down.”

The reporter almost didn’t, excitement eating his nerves.

“I asked you here today to present you with something I’ve been organizing this week.” The brunette’s English accent stepped into Steve’s ears and sat for the conversation they were about to have.

This was it. _The story._

Peggy slid the folder over to Steve. His fingers tapped the soft manila that left Steve with the thought to ask himself if he was ready. He damned sure was.

“President Kennedy is visiting Dallas, Texas next week. I’d like you to take a trip down there and report on it.” Carter was blunt. Steve appreciated her.

The pugnacious reporter couldn’t stop the grin that threatened to make permanent camp on his face.

“It’d be my honor, ma’am.”

Peggy rolled her dark eyes.

“Shut up, Rogers. I expect you to take the utmost care, and I want your story called in by the twenty-third.”

“On it.”

“Brilliant. Go pack, or something.” Peggy waved him off, a smile playing across her red lips.

Steve gave a comical salute and hurried off. He had work to do.

 

**November 22, 1963**

 

Steve didn’t sleep. He paced, and wrote and closed his eyes to let the thick black night press against his eyelids. He counted to a thousand, and then did it again. Steve wasn’t going to sleep. So he was awake, on the most important day of his career, twirling the strap of his camera through pale and slender fingers. Blankly, he realized he’d run out of coffee.

He could hear Peggy _tsk_ -ing in his head, telling him to be _alert_ and _prepared_ . She couldn’t help him now. Steve Rogers was wading in all- too- familiar water. _Exhilaration._ The small blond’s train of thought crashed when the pale green phone next to his pale green pillow rang. Steve plucked the phone off the receiver and help it up to his ear.

“‘Lo?”

“STEVIE! Up ya go! It’s game day, my friend,” Tony’s voice sang down the line.

“Uurgh.”

“Pal, if your ass isn’t up and out in an _hour_ , I’m gonna have to fly out there and amass bodily harm.”

Steve rolled his half-shut eyes and plopped unceremoniously onto the bed.

“I’m up. I’ve... been up,” he admits.

He heard Tony sigh distantly down the line.

“Alright, pal. Drink something- coffee, gin, take your pick. Then go take a cold shower and GET OUT THERE!”

Steve jumped back from the receiver, surprised but...more awake.

“...It worked didn’t it? Up and at ‘em!” The line shut off with a click.

Steve sighs, and ambles to the shower. He takes a swig of the gin Tony had snuck into his suitcase while he’s on the way to the bathroom. He steps out of the shower and contemplates his small frame in the mirror. He drinks some more. Blue eyes open and close as pink lips wet themselves before Steve Rogers drinks to...stay awake. Which really didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Huh.


	2. Chapter 2

The walk to the piece of grassy knoll Steve had claimed the previous afternoon while he had scoped out the scene was near impossible to reach. People old and young scrambled for the best spot along the road. Steve caught his fair share of elbows on the way. Other reporters formed buzzing gaggles. Steve stayed on the outskirts, more worried about staking his claim on his spot. The old woman next to him wasn't going to give him an inch. 

As the minutes crept on, Steve got himself into gear. His camera hung from his neck, and his notebook was flipped to a clean page, where his notes were quickly transferred from observations. The motorcade had probably already started its procession by now. All there was left to do was wait. Steve felt an immense sense of wonder in the air.  Something about the day was too perfect. Too right. The calm stretched on until someone shouted from up ahead. 

“Here they come!” 

The quiet snapped. Deafening cheers erupted all around, and Steve poised his camera, ready too aim and shoot. He stood his ground as the huddle tried to jostle his position. There it was. The line of cars swelled around the corner, and Steve snapped his first shot with a  _ pop! _

It continued as President Kennedy rolled by as he leisurely waved his hand with a smile to match it. Jackie sat primly on his right, smiling softly. 

The car slowed behind its police escorts, readying for one last turn around the next bend. A sound  _ banged  _ through the air a second later. Steve pulled his camera from in front of his eyes. Had a car backfired? 

A second sound. A sound like...a  _ gunshot _ ,Steve realized. 

Steve’s eyes widened as the president grabbed his throat. Steve felt his pulse quicken as panic set in. This wasn’t right. Something terrible was happening. A sinking feeling settled in his gut as another shot was fired. Somewhere in all the calamity the Secretary of State had collapsed into a heap in the front seat. Steve’s breath left his chest in rapid succession as it all fell together. Someone was  _ assassinating the president. _ Right in front of him. 

By this time the panic had set in all round him and the swarm of people erupted into frantic screams.  They pushed and tugged to get away. Steve was stuck. Glued to his spot as he was jostled by other bystanders. He turned his head slightly and wondered where exactly the shots had emerged from. Just as Steve went to turn around, a third shot burst out. A quick spot of black  _ whizzed  _ by Steve’s vision and without thinking he snapped a photograph in that direction. When he turned back, the president was dead. Jackie Kennedy was a traumatized wreck as they pulled her back into the car. 

As for the president, Steve couldn't fathom it. It had become real now. He placed a hand moved his mouth and began to process the information. John F. Kennedy was dead. He had been shot right in from of Steve. The president’s head was almost in two separate pieces and Steve wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to forget that image. The police had arrived in full force by then, and struggled to move the herd from the scene. Steve stood stagnant his spot for another few seconds until the police jostled him of his reverie. He had to get out of here. There was no guarantee the shooter was finished. 

He stumbled back toward his hotel. Steve’s breath came in sharp little bursts, and he had the sudden worry that an asthma attack was on the way. Racing along with the fear was the sinking feeling that this was far from over. The world turned to spotted waves in his vision and before he knew it, Steve Rogers had begun to spiral. 

Bad trip. 

 

**November 22, 1963**

 

The streets were dead as he trudged back to the hotel. Shouts could be heard in the distance as they compounded with slamming doors and sirens. Everyone had cleared out, ushered away by cops and the fear of a shooter on the loose. The heart of the country had been broken, crushed under enemy boots. They’d needed someone like Kennedy. Someone who could talk his way out of the communist scares and calm the minds of the people. A man who’d go to Berlin and declare, “Ich bin ein Berliner” in the face of a surrounding arms race. 

Steve wasn’t much of a God-fearing man these days, but the idea of praying didn’t seem so strange right then. 

The sidewalk seemed to stretch on forever in the silence. Pastel cars framed out empty skeletons of the crowd once packed in around them. Steve pulled the strap of his camera around his fingers until his knuckles were white. His thin shoulders shook with an invisible chill, like the death in the air was tangible. 

When Steve arrived at the hotel, every eye was glued to the television screens. Not a single person moved from the packed-in group to look Steve’s way. Hands were placed on shoulders and tears fell freely.  The coverage buzzed as background noise to the train running circles in Steve’s head. He climbed the steps to his room and keyed open the door. The ringing snapped him out of it. A phone.  _ His  _ phone. Steve dragged the phone off the receiver and took a second to breathe. 

“Hello?”

“Rogers! Where the  _ hell  _ have you been? I’ve been calling for almost an hour! Are you alright?” Peggy’s voice flew down the line. 

Steve ran a hand down his face. “I’m fine, Peg. President’s...not.” 

“I know! Why on earth do you think I’m worried Steven!”

Steve was delirious. He was sure of it. 

“Mm. Yes. Makes sense,” he mumbled.. 

Steve could hear the frown in Peggy’s next words. 

“Are you sure everything is fine? You don’t sound well.” 

Of course he wasn’t fine. A man died right in front of his eyes.The  _ president  _ died right in front of his eyes. 

“I really am, Peggy. Don’t worry.” 

A short sigh. “Fine. Just be back on the first flight. You and I have a lot to discuss.”

Steve opened his mouth to reply. 

“And—Steve, take a few days off at home before you come back in. I'll see you soon.”

Steve shook his head to himself. “Peg, I can't. I can't leave. Not now. Something is wrong and I’ve got to get to the bottom of it.” 

“Are you sure that’s the right thing to do?” Peggy sighed. “It isn’t safe out there right now and the shooter could be anywhere.” 

“It is. I've gotta stay, just a few more days until this clears up. I’ll stay low.”

His friend didn’t like the idea, Steve could tell. When she did answer, he was relieved.

“Fine. But don’t you  _ dare _ come back injured.” 

He had to smile. His strictly-business boss was just that. But she was also a friend and Steve was glad to have her. 

“Thank you. I mean it.”

“You know I care about you, Steven. Now go pack your things. And be  _ careful. _ ”

“Always am.”  

“You and I both know  _ that’s  _ a complete lie.” 

★★★★★

Steve figured it was time to do the hard thing. Just like the promise of going to the moon. He crossed the room and turned on the television, waiting as it came to life. He turned the dial until the deep voice of Walter Cronkite hit his ears. The man held his thick rimmed glasses in his hand while he spoke, slow and solemn, reporting what Steve already knew. It was barely two o’clock in the afternoon, and yet the whole world had changed. 

Steve’s attention was caught by new information. 

“The police have a suspect and are actively pursuing him at this time. Keep America in your prayers.” 

Who the hell was it? The man from the window of the Book Depository? 

“He goes by the name Lee Harvey Oswald or Harvey Lee Oswald and should be considered armed and dangerous.”

_ Holy shit _ . 

They already knew who it was. But something twisted in Steve’s gut. There was a palpable feeling of the whole thing being… too easy. It had been less than two hours since the president had been shot. Oswald had fired the shots from a hidden location. How had they known? Steve’s instinct kicked in and he had the urge to go back out, collect all the facts he could dig up. But if this man was armed, it would be best to wait it out. He’d promised Peggy. 

By the time six had rolled around Steve was pacing again. Johnson had been sworn in on Air Force I and JFK was on his way to be buried in Arlington National Cemetery.  

 

**November 24, 1963**

 

Steve hadn’t slept, too busy wringing his mind inside out for an answer, and the hours of unrest were starting to catch up with him. Still, the ringing of the phone next to the hotel bed caught him by surprise, a shrill voice among the absolute silence. He rubbed his face and cursed. Jeez, it was already two. 

“You been outside today?” Tony’s voice questioned. 

“Can’t say that I have.” Steve answered, trying to hide the way his voice drawled tiredly. 

“Get a newspaper when you can. Good news, pal. About as good as it can get right now.”  

Steve nodded, rubbing a hand across is face until he realized Tony couldn’t see him. 

“Will do, yeah.” Steve mumbled. 

When they hung up, Steve made the arduous trip down to the front desk. The metal racks holding all the newspapers was almost empty. A copy of the  _ Times _ was shoved into the gray and dented metal as per usual. After the paper had been wrestled out,Steve got a good look at the front page.

 

**LEE HARVEY OSWALD JFK KILLER: CAUGHT!**

 

**VICE PRESIDENT LYNDON B. JOHNSON SWORN IN ON AIR FORCE 1**

 

“Jesus  _ Christ.”  _ Steve whispered. 

So much for Steve’s goal. They’d caught him. It was over. He repeated the sentiment in his head as he trudged back to his hotel room. The television droned quietly in the background as he settled back to peruse the rest of the paper. As Steve lost himself to thought, the newscaster made an announcement Steve couldn’t ignore. 

“The Dallas police force will be bringing Lee Harvey Oswald forward today to speak to the press. Further details will be released shortly.” 

And suddenly he was on his feet.  _ That  _ was a story, and close up original photographs would be brilliant to come back to the  _ Times _ with. Steve was back on the mission of the past twenty-four hours as he packed to make the trek over to the courthouse. He figured that was as good a place as any to look. 

★★★★★

Steve was right, as he usually was about these things. The courthouse already bustled with reporters, each pushing for a better spot. This was where Steve’s size came in handy as he slipped quietly past. Bag slung over his shoulder, he reached into it for his camera, the shiny black surface feeling heavy in his hands. Steve took care while he passed the time inserting a new roll of film into the device. 

He was ready when the police arrived. 

He was ready when the officers escorted the alleged assassin through the room. The bubbling excitement broke out into full-on chaos. Journalists hungry for a new scoop to print  pushed and shoved each other for a chance to hop in with a question. Steve was jostled and shoved around, a repeat of the day before. He just hoped it would end differently. Oswald was pulled forth by a set of officers and men in suits who worked to keep the press back. Questions and statements were shouted left and right and Steve waited for a break in the noise to cut in. 

“Mr. Oswald! Did you kill President Kennedy?” Steve interrogated. Plain and simple. 

The man swung his head to Steve and calmly informed him that he had no idea why he had been arrested. Steve had a hard time believing that. It sounded rehearsed and the man was far too calm for the setting.  A few minutes later Oswald was ushered towards the exit. He never made it. The gunshot resounded, quick and sharp and in an instant JFK’s supposed assassin was on the ground. Insanity let loose as the the shooter was apprehended and Oswald screamed.

The shooter had come out of nowhere, a man that the locals in the room seemed to know. Steve heard whispers that he’d come over from the bar he owned just to end Oswald. Steve couldn’t do it. He wanted to report, not watch people die, but in this day and age he figured they must not be so far apart anymore. Steve stumbled backwards and out the way he came, in search of a taxi. He found one almost immediately due to the hubbub behind him still in the building, and was on his way back to his hotel, and after that, home. 

★★★★★

The plane ride to New York was surreal. The assassinations were all anyone would talk about. Every time Steve shut his eyes it was all he could see. A head jerking backwards, Jackie’s face. Damn _ surreal _ . 

The city buzzed with it, too. Whispers and headlines crowded Steve’s senses on his way back to his apartment. It all fell into focus as soon as Steve remembered the camera tucked in his bag. He’d taken a picture. A picture he needed  to develop now. The short way home seemed too long as he barely waited for traffic lights to change and other pedestrians to get out of his way. God, New York had too many people. 

He took the steps two at a time and shoved the key into the lock with a renewed vigor. This was where he belonged. Wallowing wasn’t his style. Steve needed a goal. His suitcase landed on the scratchy couch cushions with a bounce. Steve ripped his bag open and sent papers and pencils flying. His camera was lifted out and his film ejected. Steve rounded the corner, feet planting on thick orange carpet. The little closet he’d converted into a dark room sat around that corner. Steve adjusted his glasses and got to work. 

The waiting was the worst part. Pictures took a while to develop, but time crawled on even slower than usual for Steve. He paced and sighed, wiping his hands over his pale hair. The timer went off just as Steve was about ready to start outwardly whining. Practically pouncing on the the table, Steve pulled his photographs down from gathering line they were clothes-pinned to. His head tilted as he observed the images in front of him. A few were great. Pictures of a smiling crowd greeting a cordial president. Police escorts smoothly riding ahead. One was a blurred mass of nothing, but the next one...Steve almost dropped it. There was no way in hell he was seeing this.  

The photo was clear, if far away. Steve popped open a drawer under the table and grabbed a magnifying glass. It was the window of the Book Depository. All of the windows were dark and empty, except for one. A glint of metal, silver and bright took the foreground. Behind the mass of metal was a face. Pale and mostly covered, it seemed. A dark sheet of hair fell over it, completely obscuring anything of importance. What could be seen of the face didn’t match Oswald at all. The only part that made sense was the metal...that metal was a gun. A gun that appeared to have some kind of attachment made of a lighter, shinier metal.  Steve would bet his whole damned career on it. The air left him with a resounding whoosh. Yeah, Steve had a new goal all right. 

Who the hell was in that photograph?

He paced and sat and paced and sat again. Where to start? JFK had been murdered, that much was obvious, but if the killer wasn’t Oswald, was this who’d done it? No one else had mentioned seeing this man as far as Steve knew. This was a strange man who seemed to be shrouded in a residual darkness. The image made Steve’s stomach turn in fear. Something icy ran down his spine. This was wrong – all wrong. 

Steve reasoned if he wanted an answer he had to find it himself. Research was in order, and whatever he found he would just have to deal with.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**November 28, 1963**

 

**LEE HARVEY OSWALD SHOT DEAD IN DALLAS**

 

**OTHER POSSIBILITIES FOR JFK KILLER BEING INVESTIGATED**

 

**PRESIDENT JOHNSON ESTABLISHES WARREN COMMISSION**

 

Steve was ninety-nine percent sure he was being followed. Everywhere he went, every string he pulled, something was always… lurking, just on the edge of the shadows. As he walked up towards his office, the feeling returned in full force, lighting a disconcerting spark under his skin. He hurried his steps along and slipped quietly through the door before everything was dropped onto his desk. Steve was beginning to think he’d need another one with all the information he’d dredged up in the days prior. Steve stepped back from the desk, pulling out the files he needed before grabbing the yarn and tape. He would categorize first, and then connect. Simple. 

First category: Lee Harvey Oswald. Communist sympathizer, Russian wife, defector. Previous assassination attempt on Edwin Walker back in April. Steve took out the copies of the brief  _ Times _ article Tony had written on Oswald’s move to Russia and the copy of the report from the Russian embassy. They were stuck up under a photograph of the man. Steve tilted his head, touching a hand to his chin. The idea of Soviet involvement was possible, very possible. 

The next thing on the wall was the list of notes Steve had taken over the last few days. Bits and pieces of the Oswald’s life. Absent father, a mother who wasn’t all that eager to be one, and let him know it. Moved around often, high school dropout. Military record. That’s where Oswald could have learned to shoot. Steve would have to look into that. Oswald passed out flyers for a pro-communist Cuba campaign. A copy of a flyer from an old  _ New York Times _ went up, too. He hoped Carter would forgive him for all the holes he was putting in her wall.

Steve took a moment to look over his work, ignoring the shiver that ran down his spine and the way he felt the urge to glance to his right, out the bay window. He stuffed it down and pushed on to possibility two: the mafia. Robert Kennedy had a track record with them. He’d brought in tons of members working under Sam Giancana, and that wouldn't make them happy. Steve then stuck up a photo of Giancana, and placed various notes underneath it. Steve didn’t think Giancana would’ve done it himself, which left the option for someone being hired. 

Steve would have to come back to that one. Lots of known information on crimes, not a lot that would definitely give him an answer. So came possibility three in the equation: Russia. The Soviets were less than fans of Kennedy's anti-communism plans. The Cuban Missile Crisis didn’t look good either. That alone would have been enough to go after the president. America confronting the Soviet Union on missile sites in Cuba, another communist country? That was hairy. Steve had grown up in the years during and after the Second World War. His mother, rest her soul, had been diligent about protecting him from the horrors of the world. But Steve Rogers, even before he was a journalist, could never sate his curiosity. He’d read everything he could get his little hands on. This ‘war’ had grown out of old tensions spread across decades. There had never been actual combat, but the Missile Crisis was close. The assassination could have been the Soviets’ ‘screw you.’ 

Steve’s train of thought took a detour as Tony’s head poked into the office. 

“I could’ve sworn I locked that,” Steve mumbled, chewing at a nail in thought. 

Tony ignored the comment, instead opting to shoot a wide-eyed look at the wall to his left. 

“Damn, Rogers. That’s crazy,” Tony conceded, shaking his head in disbelief. “You don’t think the feds are gonna get to the bottom of it themselves?” 

Steve finally turned to fully look at Tony. “I do think they are, but if I can help get it done faster, then why shouldn’t I?” 

Tony seemed to consider for a moment, a rare example of thoughtfulness from him. 

“It’s gonna be a tough one, Steve. Dangerous. I’d say you sure as hell better take the chance but don’t get killed doin’ it is all.” Tony took a sip of his coffee as he watched Steve ponder it.

“I know it will, and I’m prepared for it. This story is going to be a gamble, but it could also lead to my, gee I don’t know, my Renaissance as a writer or somethin’.”

Tony barked out a guffaw, eyes squinting in amusement. “Hell, Nobel Prize on journalism winner Steve Rogers. Sounds about right to me.” 

Steve grinned at the underlying honesty from Tony. That was about as close as it would get from the man. Steve was glad they were friends. 

“Don’t you know it. Now get outta my office, I have work to do.” 

Tony whined and gestured wildly towards the wall. Steve held his breath as the man’s coffee sloshed dangerously towards it. 

“But I didn’t even get to  _ read _ it yet.” 

“Go. You can look over it when I’m done.” 

Tony shook his head and laughed, giving Steve a pat on the shoulder as he wandered out. 

“Yeah, yeah,  _ Mom, _ ” he mumbled as Steve rolled his eyes. 

★★★★★

All of the contemplation had led Steve to forget the sinking feeling in his gut for awhile. Purpose could do that to a person. But now, on his way back to his apartment, the quiet of the evening got to him. He’d only started home because Peggy had finally kicked him out, citing the fact that Steve had been there for sixteen hours. He still felt like he hadn’t gotten anything done. At least, not enough. 

He wiped at his eyes as he keyed open the door, so lost in thought he completely missed the man standing to his right, blocking the light from the window. When Steve finally turned, he was met with a strong arm barred across his throat. He was up against the wall before he even saw the intruder. Steve struggled to no avail, each attempt just seeming to make the man’s arm tighter. The arm across his throat made it impossible to breathe. Steve struggled again, and felt the dissonance in his brain get louder. Sucking in a fraction of a breath, Steve managed to wheeze,

“Who the hell are you?” 

The man’s head tilted, barely a ghost of movement.

“No witnesses.” He rasped out, voice gravelly like it hadn’t been used in a while, hadn’t needed to be used.  

Steve was left reeling. No witnesses? The only thing Steve had been a witness to was the assassinations of Lee and Kennedy, and there were hundreds of people there. What was so important about him? 

“What?” 

The arm on him stayed put. 

“You are my… mission. No witnesses.” The man had a slight accent, maybe Eastern European. 

Steve was left more bewildered than ever. This guy made no sense. Steve was almost too confused to be afraid.

“Listen, pal I think you got the wrong guy. I don’t know what you’re saying.” 

The arm tightened and the air left his lungs with a woosh. 

“My mission. You saw me. That cannot happen.” 

Steve’s eyes searched his assailant’s face for some kind of hint. As far as he knew, he had never seen this man in his life. In the few seconds before his next words, Steve took the precious time to observe. The man had a pale face, the beginnings of stubble spotted across the bottom half of it. If this was the man from the photograph, the mask was gone.  His brown hair fell in unwashed tendrils around the bluest eyes Steve had ever seen. Icy and menacing when only a few inches away. 

As Steve’s eyes trailed down further, something caught his attention, and then the pieces slid into place. The arm hanging at the man’s side wasn’t… human. Most of it was covered, either by a heavy jacket or a glove, but what shone glinted with the telltale signs of metal. Metal like in the photograph from the Book Depository. Steve had mistaken it for part of the gun… but it was a hand. A reflective, whirring metal hand. 

Steve’s eyes shot back up and his mouth fell open to gape at this...assassin. When the man in question noticed his arm in Steve’s line of sight, it was pulled away from Steve’s vision, and the arm on Steve’s throat regained it’s previous pressure. 

“Y-you, you killed him, didn’t you?” Steve gritted out. He was past fear, now just toiling anger and confusion across his mind. 

The man frowned for a moment in thought.

“The man...in the car? I think so.” 

Steve’s gall grew with his anger and he puffed a hysterical laugh into the air in front of him. 

“You  _ think _ ?” he spat. 

The man flinched, eyes flickering from one part of Steve’s face to another. A crease appeared between his eyes. 

“Things are mixed. Wrong. I remember the orders, the mission.” He wasn’t making any sense to Steve’s ear, but one thing stuck out immediately. 

“Who do you work for?” 

The assassin’s arm had loosened again as he thought. 

“My mission- no one should know-” 

“Who do you work for?” Steve stressed the words as frustration cut into them. This man showed up to his apartment, threatened his life, and didn’t even have the nerve to make a damn lick of sense. 

Ice blue eyes just stared at Steve, uncomprehending. 

“If you’re going to kill me do it. If not the least you could do is tell me what the hell is going on.”

The man seemed to deflate, and the arm dropped from Steve’s windpipe. He was incredibly grateful for the oxygen, though he couldn’t be sure how long it would last. He still wasn't sure it was safe to move, and a break for it could be disastrous. So he stayed put and wondered if he’d have to move apartments when this was over. The man had tucked his metal hand into his pocket and backed into the light from the window. In another life, he’d probably be beautiful, but now he was just pissing Steve off by existing. This man had killed Steve’s president, and he didn’t even seem like he knew it. Or cared. Something was obviously wrong, and Steve had no clue what to make of it. 

“I- they took me out. Of the tank. And told me I had to help- fix it all. The world.” 

Steve shook his head and chanced a step forward. 

“Who did?” 

The man hesitated and then relaxed, and hesitated again, all the while a thousand expressions fought across his face. After a moment it appeared as if he had reached a decision.  

“Hydra.” 

One word and Steve felt as his the whole world had lost its axis for the second time in the past four days. In his time spent doing research Steve had come across whispers of the organization. A group of Soviets and Germans who sought to shape the world in their image. It all seemed like a crock of shit until now. To Steve, it had started to make some kind of twisted sense. If you wanted to knock a rival country off balance, you killed its revered leader and stripped its people of hope. Then you moved in and took over. It was almost laughably obvious, but that didn’t make the plan any less effective, especially since the most important part had already taken place. Steve contemplated his next words. 

“And you work for them?” 

The man gave pause and looked unsure once again.

“I...did.”   


The pause was handed back to Steve. Any hope of making sense  had left the space long ago, and Steve desperately wanted to chase after it. 

“What does that mean, you ‘did?’” Steve questioned.

“I used to. I do not anymore. They are looking for me, but I do not want to go back. I did...a lot of things. For them.” The assassin looked like he wanted to be sick, and Steve knew the feeling well. 

“So you left? And they’re looking for you?” 

“Yes,” was all the answer Steve was given.

“Are you going to kill me?” It seemed like the more practical question. 

“No. I don’t think I have to… anymore.” 

Steve would take all he could get. With that, the pondered what to do next with the assassin standing on his living room carpet. 

 

**November 28, 1963**

 

As Steve contemplated the man, it turned out the answer wasn’t difficult to find. The man quietly accepted the seat Steve offered him. The journalist in him pointed towards beginning with questions. Steve took a seat in the plush cream chair across from the couch and crossed his legs. The man on the couch regarded him with a blank expression. Steve took a moment to take in the man’s state of dress. Thick black goggles hung from around his neck. The black continued onto the military-grade jacket he wore, buttoned to the top presumably to hide as much as possible. Black jacket into black tactical pants and heavy leather boots, barely scuffed from use. Leather gloves with the fingers missing adhered to hands that tapped lightly on black clad knees. He looked ready to jump into action at any moment. Steve didn’t think it was conscious. 

Steve sat back in his chair and figured a gentle approach was best. He didn’t used to smoke often because of the asthma he had since he’d been a kid, but this week had thrown  _ that _ out the window. He pulled his pack from his pocket and noted he’d smoked almost the full twenty in the pack since the twenty-second, and lit one of the last smokes in the pack. He figured he would need another the way things were going. He lit the cigarette and took a drag before he spoke. 

“I’m guessing you’re the one who’s been following me.” At the nod, he continued, “And I can venture a guess that it’s because of that photograph.” 

Another nod.

“You worked for Hydra, but you don’t anymore. Why?” 

“I do not think I was given a choice.” 

That stopped Steve in his tracks. 

“What do you mean? You were forced to work for them?” 

“Yes.” 

How was that possible? How could someone be... _ brainwashed  _ to carry out the strategic killing of a political figure? 

“How?” Steve asked quietly, not sure if he was prepared for the answer. 

The man visibly stiffened at that and was quiet so long Steve wasn’t sure he was going to answer. Then, after what seemed to stretch on for eternity, he spoke, leaving quiet syllables on the air for Steve to catch. 

“They. Took me. A long, long time ago. There was a. Chair—” When he cut himself off Steve could see how hard the words were to summon. 

The strange unbelievable feeling had returned, this time with the realization that Steve felt...empathy towards that man. At least what had happened to him. Things still weren’t adding up.

“So, they made you… go after the president.” Steve spoke softer, choosing his words with care. He knew better than most how important words could be. 

The man nodded and took on a look of despair. His fists clenched, and he stood. Steve watched him make his way towards the open window, strides long and deliberate.

“I should not be here. They will find me.” With that he was gone into the late afternoon sun.

Steve sat back in his chair again and rubbed a hand over his eyes. The trepidation was gone and pure confusion sat down in its place. 

“I’ll...see you around..?” Steve wondered quietly to the empty space in the window frame. 

Things weren’t ever what they seemed to be, and Steve still couldn’t be sure he wasn’t dreaming. 

★★★★★

“Oh my God,” Steve groaned before he sat up in bed. 

How the hell could he have forgotten? If… whoever that was that broke into his apartment last night killed Kennedy, then why had Oswald gotten the blame for it? Was this all some elaborate scheme to stop  _ him _ from getting on that trail? 

Steve flopped back on his pillow and groaned once more. He had so much work to do. 


	4. Chapter 4

**November 29, 1963**

 

The trek back to his office was uneventful, though this time Steve was acutely aware of his shadow being more than just on the ground. He couldn’t see the man, but Steve knew he was watching. It made his skin crawl and his heart beat a step faster than before. He took the steps two at a time and hit the elevator in a stride. When he got to his floor, Tony immediately herded him into Peggy’s office. Peggy sat behind her desk, a mug of coffee cradled between her hands. 

“Steven. Please sit down. You too, Mister Stark.” 

Steve and Tony sat in tandem, equally confused as to what she could want from them both. Peggy cleared it up fairly quickly. 

“Steven, why are you investigating the assassination of our late president?” Peggy questioned. 

Steve squirmed in his seat. “It doesn’t feel right, Peg. Something is off here and I want to find out what.” 

“And how exactly are you going to do that?” Peggy asked, as her hands moved to fold together neatly. 

“I want to go to D.C. Ask a few questions, see what I can dig up.” Might as well go all in, Steve figured. 

Peggy sat back in her chair, appraising his request. 

“All right then. As long as you write a story and keep it all legal you can go. Get yourself a press ticket. Three days, then you’re flying back and working on some  _ assigned  _ stories,” She finished with a pointed look. 

“I’ll only need one, ma’am.” Steve answered. 

Peggy pierced him with a skeptical look before she nodded her assent. 

Steve thanked her until Tony interrupted as he cleared his throat.

“If I may ask, why am I here, again?” 

Peggy rolled her eyes. 

“Because you’re nosy so it was better to just have you here in the first place.” 

Steve couldn’t stop the snort that followed. Tony took a gargantuan swig of his coffee and shrugged one shoulder in agreement. 

On their way out of the room, Tony clapped Steve on the shoulder. 

“Good work, pal. Hope you find what you’re lookin’ for.” 

“Yeah,” Steve answered, “Me too.” 

★★★★★

**November 30, 1963**

 

The flight to D.C. was uneventful, and Steve was there in a few hours. He’d gotten lucky and landed a press ticket for a tour of the FBI headquarters later that day. He dropped his bag at the random  hotel the  _ Times _ used down there and swept over to the building. He signed in and held his notepad close, pretending to take notes. He stayed at the back of the tour group and was silent, raising no questions or observations out loud. Steve was almost glad for his size, as no one seemed to notice when he snuck off in the opposite direction. 

Their tour guide, an agent himself, had pointed down a long hallway and joked, 

“That’s where we keep all the fun stuff.” 

The reporter in front of Steve had asked, “Like information about the Kennedy assassination?” 

The agent returned her question with, “That’s classified.”

Steve realized that was probably where he needed to be. He quickly sidestepped until the group turned a corner and then pretended to read over his notes until the people who remained in the hall dispersed. Steve took his bag and camera and tucked them behind a few potted plants. He placed his hat onto his head and straightened to his full height of five foot and change, praying that this would work. 

Steve put on his game face and strutted down the hall, giving each person he passed a terse nod on the way. When he reached the end of the hall he stopped seeing people. Either he was in the right place or his tour guide was bluffing. The only thing between Steve and the next room was a metal door which, as expected, was locked. It was time for plan B. Steve wandered the hall with his best innocent face until an agent rounded the corner to sweep through the door with his I.D. Steve smiled quickly at him as he passed, and then waited a second before catching the door with the toes of his shoe. 

Then it was on to another room and down a flight of stairs before Steve hit the big guns. It looked like a vault on the outside, but through a tiny window on the huge metal door, Steve could see rows of tables and chairs with heaps of files set on various surfaces. Boxes held what couldn’t fit on the tables. Steve pulled on the door and hoped for the best. He took pause for a moment at his luck and let the door fall open. No lights were left on in the space, and Steve didn’t dare take the risk of turning one on. He traced his fingers across a few files and took stock of the titles. Nothing terribly interesting until the third box. The label across the side read, ‘JFK’ in big bold type. Steve grabbed the files on Oswald and Hydra before he placed the lid back on top silently. 

The next box held a roll of film titled ‘Zapruder.’ Steve had heard about this, the film that showed  the assassination. Steve considered watching it for clues, then figured having seen it once was enough for a lifetime. 

Steve took what was under his arm quickly back out of the door and up to the light of day. The files were tucked hastily into his bag and Steve was back in time to finish the tour, not a hair out of place. Not a damned soul noticed his excursion and Steve was truly on cloud nine because of it. Peggy would put his head on a platter, but only if she knew, and Steve did not plan on telling her. 

Back in the safety of his hotel room, Steve unpacked the files. All the normal information on Oswald, so he set it to the side and opened the Hydra file. It detailed an organization that Steve had never even heard of before that man came into his apartment. A Soviet and German  government agency who set out terroristic missions all over the world. A list of suspected bases, a few names. Incredibly classified, and Steve would probably be given a treason charge if anyone ever found out. He shook his head and read on. There were noted on a leading operative the file  referred to as the “Winter Soldier.” A man with over fifty kills on his record. 

Steve thought back to the man in his living room. He had used to work for Hydra, as an assassin. Steve felt his head begin to throb. This was absolute insanity and he’d just been thrown in the middle of it. 

When he was done with the files Steve went right to bed, and he was back in New York by the next afternoon. 

★★★★★

**December 1, 1963**

 

When Steve arrived home, the man was in his living room again, though this time he sat at the kitchen table. Steve threw his bag onto the couch along with this coat and hat. 

“You know, you should probably acquire some new clothes if you don’t want to attract any attention,” Steve drawled. He’d figured someone would be back to his apartment. 

The man almost smiled at that, a ghost across his lips. 

“You may be right,” he answered,considering.

Steve purposely put himself between the man and the files, as if that would do anything in the event of an emergency.

“So, what brings you back here?” Steve asked. 

The man shrugged, an honest look of confusion on his features.

“I… am not sure. You are a funny little man, Steve.” 

Steve bristled. Who did this guy think he was? Steve wasn’t even going to begin on how he knew Steve’s name, either. 

“Thanks,” Steve snapped.

The man sensed his unease and frowned. 

“You also did not tell anyone I was here. Thank you.” 

Steve cocked his head to the side and shrugged. He hadn’t even thought about it if he was honest. 

“Well, if you’re gonna keep hanging around here, at least get some new clothes, pal,” Steve replied. 

The man nodded and sat back in his chair, feet tapping lightly at the floor. Steve was thrown for a loop but decided not to question it. He stepped into the kitchen in search of a meal and threw over his shoulder,

“You stayin’ for dinner?” 

The man grunted out an affirmative and Steve nodded to himself. It dawned on him as he pulled out the chicken that he had no clue what this guy’s name was. So Steve resolved to ask casually as he searched for vegetables. 

The man answered with, “To be honest, I do not know.” 

“Uh, okay. How about I call you…” Steve trailed off.

“They used to call me the Soldier,” the man supplied.

Steve rolled it around in his head. The only name in the Hydra file that sounded like that was the  _ Winter Soldier _ . Of  _ course  _ he had the Winter Soldier in his kitchen. Sparks popped in Steve’s brain as his foot tapped a beat into the floor.  Steve had no clue how to address the realization, and he figured the fact that he still had his life was a good enough start to keep him from asking right away. 

“All right, yeah. How about I call you Soldier?” Steve asked. 

The man nodded. “If you would like.” 

They are in silence and Steve couldn’t tell if it was comfortable or not. He watched with a bemused expression as the Soldier scarfed down his food like someone would take it from him. Steve contemplated making conversation a few times, but the thought was pushed aside as the Soldier continued to eat. 

A few servings of Chicken à la King later, Steve and the Soldier were sprawled in their chairs, lazily pretending they weren’t observing one another. The Soldier was the first to break the silence. 

“You are taking this very well.” 

Steve just stared. 

“I wanted to kill you, and you just made me dinner,” he continued. 

Steve’s head lolled to sit on his hand. “Thanks for...not killing me, I suppose.” 

The Soldier actually smiled at the comment. “You are very welcome.” 

Steve closed his eyes and chuckled to himself, and soon they were both laughing at the madness of the whole thing. The Soldier in stilted tones like he hadn’t done such a thing in a long time, and Steve in quiet notes that sounded more natural if also unused. 

When the laughter had waned, Steve moved to clean up the dishes, but the Soldier was already there. 

“I remember this part,” he gave as an explanation 

Steve shrugged and moved to his bag, picking it up on his way to the bedroom. When he emerged, the Soldier had disappeared again, and the open living room window gave Steve his answer. 

★★★★★

**December 2, 1963**

 

When Steve woke up the phone had already rung four times. As he presumed, it was Peggy. After a recap of how he had found absolutely nothing and a promise to go back to his normal writing, Steve fell back onto his pillow. Time to move the research shop. He’d found  _ many  _ somethings, but Steve wasn’t sure he wanted anyone to know that yet.  Two hours later his research wall was now in his bedroom and the Hydra files were taped up in various places around it. Steve was just starting to wonder if the Soldier could give him any insight when he felt a presence behind him. 

He turned in an instant and was met with the man in question. Except, now he was dressed in a dark gray turtleneck that framed his figure wonderfully. Black slacks and a matching black blazer accompanied the ensemble. The Soldier wore shiny black boots and his hair was freshly washed, the long tendrils now tucked behind his ears. He looked dashing, and Steve found it was difficult to move his eyes from the sight. The Soldier noticed and smirked, and Steve felt a little weak in the knees, not that he would ever admit to it. The way he felt about men wasn’t exactly something he could be open about, and the Soldier had given no indication of how he would react it he knew about Steve. 

“Is this better?” The Soldier asked. Steve figured he probably already knew the answer. 

“It’s...fine.” Steve tried and failed to feign nonchalance. 

The Soldier smiled and moved past Steve to gaze at the wall in thought. After a moment he spoke. 

“You know you do not need any of this, right?” he mused.

“What?” Steve shot back.

“I could just tell you how it happened.” The Soldier replied. 

Steve huffed. “You couldn’t have started with that?” 

The Soldier laughed and plopped onto Steve’s bed. Steve had to force his mind from the ideal circumstances for that to focus on the real one. The Soldier crossed his ankles and cocked his head before he spoke. 

“Hydra, they found the man, Oswald. He wanted to be famous,” the Soldier gave a dark chuckle. “They assign me the mission and let him take the blame. He takes it too far, kills a police officer after he runs from the vantage point building where they were watching him. Another man, Ruby, on your wall, was hired to take him out. End of story, assassin found. It was my job to do the real killing.” The Soldier looked down, a guilty expression painted on his face. 

Steve contemplated the words. It all made sense, added up perfectly if he was honest. His heart went out to the Soldier at the last few words.

“The FBI is curious. They think Hydra may have been involved,” Steve replied, eyes flicking back to the wall. 

The Soldier nodded. “So I have heard.” 

Steve regarded the man for a second before he boldly asked, “Has anyone ever told you you have a very interesting way of speaking?” 

“I have been in Russia for a… long time. American English is unusual,” the Soldier replied. 

Steve nodded and moved on. 


	5. Chapter 5

**December 16, 1963**

 

Life had gone back to normal for Steve, at least as much as it could. He wrote columns and took pictures. Too much coffee and not enough sleep tied his days together just like always. Except now the Soldier had undoubtedly become a part of it. His visits became more frequent, his demeanor more open the longer he spent with Steve. Steve still had no clue where he went at night, but he reasoned the man could take care of himself. Steve found himself admiring the features of the Soldier more often. His eyes that grew brighter every time they met, the plush pink lips that Steve began to long for. He made sure to push those thoughts away when the Soldier was actually around, though. He was fairly certain the Solder didn’t even feel that way about men, not to mention  the illegality of the preference for men. 

So Steve did what Steve did best, and pushed on. He still had plenty of questions about the Soldier, though he began to find answers in the coming days. 

Steve didn’t turn around when the slide of the front window met his ears. He’d gotten used to the change in the air that told him the Soldier had entered the space. Steve turned where he was and leaned back against the kitchen counter. He’d wondered when he’d see the man now standing in his kitchen like he had finally learned how to inhabit a domestic space again. The Soldier seemed to regard Steve carefully for a moment, before he tilted his head and stepped out of sight. Steve followed the man into the living room, where he’d stopped in front of the record player. The Soldier’s slim flesh fingers skimmed across the record titles shelved behind it before he plucked one from the stack. Steve couldn’t see the title as the Soldier placed it into the player and hit play.

When the Soldier turned around, the opening beats of one of Steve’s favorites, “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow,” was bleeding into the room. The Soldier reached out a pale hand and Steve paused for just a second before he gently took it. There was no way in hell this was going to go where Steve thought it was, right? 

The air was knocked out of Steve’s lungs as the other man pulled him close in one swift movement so they were chest to chest. Steve struggled to regain his breath as the Soldier leaned forward so his lips just grazed Steve’s ear.

“Your home, it is being watched,” the Soldier whispered. “Anyone could hear.” 

If Steve were to be honest, he wasn’t surprised. He was too close to the truth for anyone’s liking. The possible surveillance explained why the Soldier had Steve in such close proximity.

“Who?” was all Steve was able get out, the taller man’s proximity electrifying. 

“FBI… maybe Hydra.”  

“Shit.” 

The Soldier pulled Steve impossibly closer before he answered. 

“Relax, Steve. Be careful, that is all.” 

Steve was suddenly angry. This was his home.  Jesus Christ, was he safe  _ anywhere _ ? 

The Soldier must have felt Steve’s shoulders tense because all of a sudden he rubbed a hand across them lightly. Steve suppressed a shudder at the touch. Something so soft from someone like the Soldier, given to Steve of all people, was strange and incredible wrapped into one unusual position. He unclenched his jaw, not even aware he’d done it. As he stood there and felt the rivulets of tension and fear slowly drain from his body, the Soldier swayed them from side so side. Steve closed his eyes, and for a moment he could imagine they were dancing in a club, that this was his life, and by some imaginative stretch, the Soldier was a permanent part of it. 

The moment stilled as the Soldier spoke into it. 

“Since… I found you— I remembered things. About myself. Who I was.” 

Steve listened intently to the fragments that fell from the Soldier’s lips. 

“My na-”

The spell was broken as the door buzzer rang out. Damn it. 

The Soldier immediately pulled back and turned to go, but Steve stopped him with a hand on a taut bicep. 

“Wait,” Steve said. “It’s Peggy. I think— I think she can help us. Stay and talk to her. Please.” 

He put on his best ‘I just want to help’ look and then notched it up twenty volts for good measure. 

“You can leave if anything goes wrong, I promise. You can trust her.” 

The Soldier shifted uncomfortably as the choice rolled in his mind. 

“I— alright. If you trust her.” 

Bingo. 

Steve smiled and dropped the innocent eyes to go buzz Peggy up. 

What he didn’t anticipate was the expression on the woman’s face when she arrived to find the Soldier pacing the living room. Steve nearly crashed into her back where she was paused in the doorway. Peggy tilted her head before she questioned the sight. 

“Bucky?”

Steve froze—all precautions over the bugs momentarily forgotten. 

“Who the hell is Bucky?” 

Peggy pointed a finger out in front of her to the man in question. 

“That,” she began, “is Bucky.” 

“Bucky?” Steve asked as he felt the confusion color his features. 

The Soldier looked like he’d been set afloat, torn from his comfort zone.  He cleared his throat quietly and spoke. 

“I… that is me.” 

Steve’s eyes trailed from the Soldier’s pinched face to Peggy’s small frown to in an attempt to work out the correlation there. 

“Peg, what’s going on?” He had to ask. 

Peggy moved further into the living room to stand before the Soldier or Bucky or whoever he’d turned out to be. 

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes fought in the Second World War alongside a team often known as the Howling Commandos. They operated under Colonel Phillips. As did I.”

Steve hadn’t been told much about Peggy’s past in the war, from her or anyone else, but he knew how hard it had been for her to establish herself after it. He stayed silent as she continued. 

“It was the belief of his fellow soldiers as well as me that he had died during the war. Seems we were mistaken.” 

Steve took a moment to absorb her words. If they were true, Bucky should be a hell of a lot older than he looked. He opened his mouth to ask as Bucky spoke.

“Carter. I know you.” 

Peggy’s frown melted away into a tiny smile as her eyes filled with tears.

“James. What happened to you?” 

Bucky’s expression could only be described as tragic. His face crumpled into something small and sad. His eyes had matching tears for Peggy’s and his mouth was in a thin line below their icy blue stare. He stepped forward as she did, and they met in an embrace, held gingerly. Steve felt his own eyes grow misty at the sight. True friends were hard to come by, and whatever Bucky and Peggy had been through together was something neither one had forgotten. After a moment they separated and Steve was brought back to the present moment. Frankly, he still possessed hundreds of unanswered questions, and he itched to get to the bottom of them. 

“You both,” Steve broke in, “have a lot of explaining to do.” 

The conversation played out like a chart on the wall of Steve’s office. Peggy explained what she remembered about her lost comrade. Bucky listened attentively and occasionally cut in with a memory of his own. Something akin to pride swelled in Steve’s chest at the display. In the short time he had known the man, Bucky had been closed off and stoic. This was a new side to the former assassin that Steve had found himself feeling incredibly fond of. Steve and Peggy made the silent decision to take what they were given that day and not push Bucky for more information than he put forward. This was something as simple and good as a conversation between friends, however mismatched and broken they may have been. 

When Peggy eventually left, Steve pulled her into a hug, whispering his thanks in her ear. She exited with a smile for them both, handed over with warm words of parting. After the door had been shut, Steve turned back to Bucky who had once again stood. The picture before him made Steve think back to the first time they had met, if that was what it could be called.There were obvious differences between the Bucky of then and the one in front of him. This Bucky had been painted gold by the evening hours. His mouth was no longer tight but instead took on the look of soft and plush features. Most of all, Bucky’s eyes were no longer icy and brimming with tension, but radiating the calm of a ride with the windows down. 

“So...Bucky, huh?” Steve joked.

“Something like that,” Bucky answered. 

Steve gave a responding smirk at the man he had come to care about. That man crossed the room and wiped the smirk right off with a gentle kiss to Steve’s temple before he too was gone from sight. Steve fell back onto the couch in something he would deny for the rest of his days as a swoon. 

He was in something way deeper than he ever would have dreamed, and Steve Rogers couldn’t find the time to regret it. 

★★★★★

 

**December 18, 1963**

 

He was exceedingly used to nothing in his life making even a semblance of sense. Which is why he was surprised when he wanted to start making sense of it all. Steve was never sure when he would see Bucky again, but he figured the man wouldn’t be around for at least a day or so. The midnight moon illuminated his features as he slipped into a warm tan jacket with plenty of pockets and dark brown slacks. Steve Rogers had an inclination for fist fights when he was younger, but he had mostly grown out of it. Mostly. It still came as a cold shock when he had decided he would need to invest in something with the type of violence a gun possesed. He didn’t like them or what they were capable of. It was a new kind of violence, and what it might have to be used for ate at him constantly. 

He slipped the revolver into the inner pocket of his jacket along with a pocket knife and his inhaler. Preventing asthma attacks was important, and Steve refused to feel silly about it. When he was ready, he walked out of the front door resolutely and absolutely did not contemplate going back inside and forgetting all about this.

The truth seeker in Steve won out in the end and he kept up the walk to the subway. The FBI’s files had mention of a ‘Winter Soldier.’ A Hydra operative with an unparalleled kill count. They had no definitive idea if he was real, but Steve had always been excellent at making connections. Steve hadn't asked Bucky about all the things he’d done, but that didn’t stop Steve from wanting to know.  The location of one possible Hydra base had been disclosed in the papers, and it just so happened that Steve could get there with a fairly short subway ride. 

The Garment district of lower Manhattan was pitch black and silent at that hour. Not a light shone that wasn’t the moon on this block, and the glide of cars was so distant Steve had no idea if he was just imagining them to make himself feel better. He took the long way, scoping out the block and all the possible entrances. The warehouse was set low to the ground, only a story high and peppered in painted-over windows. There were only three entrances as far as he could see, and the closest one was only locked with a padlock. Either Hydra was going for a hide-in-plain-sight approach or Steve was in the wrong place. 

He figured if he was, there’d be no harm. He was probably less likely to die, at least. Peggy would be happy about that. Steve pushed through the thousand different spots of fear and excitement welling inside of him and approached the door. He’d snuck into the damned FBI headquarters and stolen classified information. He could do this. 

Steve pulled open a pocket on his jacket and produced a thin Torsion wrench. The cool metal grounded him in the moment as he got to work. Steve was a talented sleuth, which seemed to bleed over into being talented at getting where he needed to be. Lock picking was a natural talent for Steve. The lock was cake, and he was inside the warehouse in minutes. 

The floor plan was open and sprawling, covered in various boxes and tools. Steve picked his way around them, mostly ignoring their presence. There was no way they’d leave the good stuff out in the open. There had to be another part of the structure he was missing. Another room, another door. He found it when he had almost hit the back wall. 

It was a trapdoor-like thing, heavy and sharp with metal. Thick braided rope wove between slats to form a handle that Steve immediately pulled on. No use in going back now. The door let up without a sound and Steve only gave pause to locate the first wooden stair. He descended silently, not daring to take a breath or a step too loud. Light hit his eyes in a flash, and Steve pressed himself against the far wall until the spots left his vision. He was in a sub-level, carved from stone and filled with hanging lights and metal desks in neat rows. The desks had begun to rust and were piled with papers and files. 

The light turned out to be a broken bulb that seemed to cut through the dark with an angry buzz. It left Steve disoriented as he crept through. Deeper into the room doors lined the walls. Steve ignored them. They weren’t hidden enough for him. He felt his luck begin to wane when a crack resounded from over head. The building groaned as the heavy sound of rain filtered into the space. He wouldn’t be able to hear a damned thing coming. Time to pick up the pace and hope he didn’t miss anything. 

When he felt as though he’d been walking for hours, Steve hit the jackpot. A looming threshold held shut by a gargantuan wooden door. A sliding lock held it all in place and Steve was certain he would need an act of God to get into the room behind it. He started simple and pulled, the lock easing back just a fraction. He pulled again and it slid even more. After a few tries the strip of metal stuck and Steve found his miracle. He was small enough to fit through. Steve shoved his shoulders and head through the door and a second later was in. The space was small – only another desk and chair in front of a filing cabinet. Steve crossed to the cabinet and immediately yanked it open. 

That was when his luck ran out completely. The voices came first and seemed to swarm him as the research areas on the outside came to life. A thick accent rasped through the air, commanding that everyone get to work promptly. Then Steve began to panic. He sifted through the files as fast as he could, mumbling each name to himself as he did. 

“Ball, Banner,  _ Barnes _ .”

A file was ripped from the cabinet and tucked into Steve’s jacket in a flash. All he had to do now was get out of there alive. He scoped the room nervously, hoping for an easy exit he had missed. No such luck. Then the ceiling tiles came into view, and Steve prayed to whatever was out there they would hold his weight as he scaled the desk and jumped to reach them. He pushed one aside and scrambled into the hole just as the door began to clang with the sound of sliding metal. The tile was back in place a second before the door swung open. Not sure if his movement would make a sound, Steve used the creak of the door to cover his shuffling. 

Steve reached the end of the ventilation and kicked out the grate a few minutes later. He was on  his feet and running as soon as he had, only stopping for a reprieve when he had reached the safety of civilization again. His heart pounded the entire journey home, even as he ascended the stairs to his front door. As soon as Steve opened it, Bucky was in his space. 

“Where were you?” he questioned as his chest came to push into Steve’s.

Steve didn’t try to move him, didn’t want to. Truthfully he was endeared by the worry that painted Bucky’s features. 

“Just went out for a walk. Couldn't sleep. That’s all, Buck.”

Steve looked right into his eyes and begged the lie would be taken. 

“I do not believe you.” 

Damn it.

“You should.” 

Bucky’s eyes locked Steve in place with a quiet demand. They trailed down Steve’s frame before they stopped on his jacket. 

“What is in there?” He asked it like he already knew the answer, and Steve had a feeling he was in trouble. 

With a sigh, Steve pulled out the gun and hoped it would be enough to get Bucky off his tail. The other man’s eyes widened at the weapon. 

“Did you do something, Steve?” Bucky asked.

His proximity was slowly driving Steve to madness. He didn’t like being babysat and Bucky couldn’t be that close if Steve was supposed to focus. He tried to keep his cool as he shook his head. 

“You said there were people after me, so I figured I should have some type of protection,” Steve reasoned. 

“You have me,” Bucky answered, earnest and concerned. 

Steve’s heart almost gave out at the words. He could almost imagine they were what he wanted them to be, but that wouldn’t happen and now wasn’t the time. 

“I- I know.” 

“Then why else did you need the gun, Steve?” Annnnnnd he had walked right into it. 

Steve’s head dropped against the door behind him as Bucky plucked the file from his jacket. He didn’t dare watch Bucky open the file and read. He felt the man tense against him as the words took hold.

“Why do you have this?” Bucky pushed, voice strained. 

Steve opened his eyes to meet Bucky’s wide gaze. Now or never, then. 

“I wanted to know. I wanted to know who you were and what they did to you. I thought...I might be able to help you figure out who you were.” Steve gave his answer honestly, still fearing how Bucky would react.

“And you think getting yourself killed was the way to do that?” Bucky responded. 

“No- I didn’t know anyone was there, Bucky.” 

“I could have told you. You should have asked me.” 

Steve pressed his lips into a tight line. He knew Bucky was in the right there, but he was so used to figuring it all out on his own that asking for that kind of help felt foreign. 

“I cannot lose you, Steve. I can’t,” Bucky continued. 

That caught Steve’s attention and he looked up again. Bucky’s face was soft in the moonlight that bled through the curtains. 

“I’m sorry, Buck. I am.” 

Bucky nodded before moving them to sit on the couch side by side. Bucky’s thigh pressed into Steve’s while their shoulders bumped. Steve let himself melt at the warmth just a little. Bucky nodded again and set the file gently on the table, its pale cover glaring at them. 

“I was born in 1917. I am from Brooklyn,” Bucky began. 

Steve peered up at the face next to his, “I’m from there, too.” 

Bucky smiled, soft and beautiful.

“You should take me back sometime,” he proposed. 

“Of course,” Steve promised. 

Bucky continued to spill facts and slowly he wove his story around Steve’s head until the man fell into a dreamless sleep. When Steve woke up Bucky was gone. Steve made sure to call the FBI and place an anonymous tip on a Hydra base in Queens and chalked up his work there. He took a moment to think back on the research he’d given up. Steve knew who had killed JFK. He knew it wasn’t really Bucky’s fault. He couldn’t write the story. Bucky would be taken in and… God, they’d probably kill him like the Rosenbergs. The best Steve could do was point the right people in the right direction.


	6. Chapter 6

**December 21, 1963**

 

The next time Bucky visited Steve was the most caught off guard he’d been in a while. He had come through the window as per usual, but this time it was without a shirt. The midnight moon cast a dark shadow on Bucky’s face, and all Steve could see was the arm. The mechanism was large and seemed to eat up all the color around it. As Bucky crept through the window, an alarming list of things began to fall into place. 

Buck never wore clothes that would expose his neck, and now Steve could see it was for good reason. The arm was metal, as Steve had previously known, but it attached to the rest of Bucky with thick leather straps. The first ran from the bottom of Bucky’s throat around through the space where his underarm lay. The second stretched across Bucky's chest in a vice-like grip that Steve knew had to be painful. 

The second thing on the list was the fact that Bucky’s jackets seemed to be a size too large. Steve had ignored it, but he saw now that the thick plates of metal must have been difficult to conceal. Steve’s gaze trailed to Bucky’s fingers, how they twitched every few seconds. 

The last thing on the list was the realization that Steve had never really seen those fingers after the first time. Bucky had taken special care to conceal the appendage from the world and from Steve. His eyes roved back up to Bucky’ face. His expression was guarded and careful, unlike anything Steve had seen in a while. His hair was pulled away from his face and tied back. Steve took one more second to admire the thick planes of Bucky’s chest and stomach, and how the muscles moved under the skin as he breathed. He’d gained some color since meeting Steve, his skin now a faint gold. Steve wondered how long he had stared as his eyes finally met Bucky’s. 

“Steve,” the man began.

Steve cut him off. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” 

That earned a smile from Bucky, and he must have realized Steve wasn’t repulsed by his form because suddenly he was moving smoothly towards Steve until he could smell Bucky’s skin. He smelled like earth and...lavender. Steve kind of loved it. 

“I...distracted some Hydra agents. They were a little too close to your home.” 

Steve was fairly sure distracted meant ‘beat the hell out of.’ He was unusually fine with that. 

“Thanks,” Steve answered. 

“Is that all?” Bucky joked with a wry smirk. 

A jolt of want went through Steve as he decided to play along. He leaned back against the kitchen counter and raised his brows in question. 

“Is there something else you wanted?” 

Bucky’s answer was to pad the few steps forward and close the distance between them that suddenly felt immense. Steve had the distinct feeling Bucky was able to feel it too, somewhere behind those sparkling eyes. Bucky was close and the inch of space that separated them was suddenly too far for Steve’s liking. 

“I think you know, Steve.” 

Steve stopped breathing for a moment. Bucky had taken the liberty of leaning into Steve’s space, and Steve had lost his mind. Did Bucky know what Steve really wanted? What he didn’t dare ask for? It was a risk Steve would have to take, and he hoped Bucky would catch him when he fell. 

“Bucky,” Steve began slowly. “I want you.” 

The man Steve had come to care for so much answered the request with a grin, full and blinding and the brightest one Bucky had ever given to Steve. They both knew when this risk was taken they would end up in safe arms. Bucky was the first to step off the cliff and press his lips to Steve’s. They were warm and soft, and Steve thought he tasted something sweet on their plush surfaces. The kiss only lasted a few seconds, but that was all Steve needed to know it was right.  _ God  _ did it feel right. When they pulled away Bucky planted a kiss on Steve’s forehead and Steve couldn’t control the heat that rose in his cheeks like a flame. 

It took Steve a moment to come back to himself, and to realize Bucky’s skin was pressed hot to his. The feeling made Steve sigh as all of his tension made a dash for the door. Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve and held him as they breathed in each other’s space. The metal arm felt stiff and cool through the thin fabric of Steve’s shirt. It was a contrast Steve was grateful for as the temperature kissed his burning skin. 

When Steve felt like he’d collapse if he stood any longer, he wrapped a hand around the thin skin of Bucky’s nape and leaned his forehead against the other man’s. 

“Stay, please,” Steve implored like he couldn’t stand the answer to be negative. 

Bucky agreed with a tug to Steve’s waist as they moved to the bedroom. Steve didn’t expect anything more than they had already done. He just wanted to feel the solid muscle of Bucky’s chest move beneath his head as they slept. Steve wanted to hold Bucky close and carve a space just for him in Steve’s life. It was Steve’s luck that Bucky must have had the same idea as they undressed to slide beneath the sheets. As Steve placed his head onto Bucky’s form and Bucky secured his arms around Steve, Steve couldn’t help but feel as though nothing could touch him. Not a car on that distant street, not a dangerous research mission, not a damned soul. 

 

**February 7, 1964**

 

Their separate dances were now a tango, and it became the new normal. A few weeks passed and Bucky had come home with a clean report. No operatives were out to find Steve, and they could all move on in peace. Oswald went down as the assassin in the history books. Steve went back to work full-time (despite Bucky’s ire that he would miss Steve too much), though Steve thought the man was pretty well-versed in making the long nights of research go smoothly. 

Bucky had moved in a week after they had kissed, and Steve was almost entirely sure he was set on staying. Peggy came around often to help with dinner and regale ample stories. Steve fell in love with the way Bucky’s eyes would light aflame and his hands would fall into Steve’s as he listened. The two people he most adored, sharing something so full of life, was incredible to Steve. Most importantly, he watched the spark come back to Bucky. Steve hadn’t known the man Bucky was before he was taken by Hydra, but he had an idea as to who that man may have been. 

Bucky’s easy humor flowed and his charm was always turned to the highest setting when Steve was around. He was self conscious about his arm even when Peggy held the hand in her own and smiled a teary thing at Bucky. Steve figured he may always be afraid of what others thought, but that never stopped him. 

After the first few weeks, Bucky began to go out again, see the world he had missed. Steve walked him through Brooklyn and regaled the stories of his younger days. They left for home side by side and feeling like the sun was on their side as it set, leaving enough shadow for their hands to find each other. Bucky bought a leather glove for his left hand and never left the apartment without it. Steve kissed the pads of the metal fingers whenever he had a chance. 

★★★★★

On one of the first nights of March, as snow flew down outside their cozy room, Steve pulled his weight up to perch atop Bucky’s slim hips. Bucky laced their fingers together above his head in a perfect knot as Steve spoke. 

“You know I never actually thanked you for staying,” he began. 

Bucky grinned. “You didn’t have to. And if you think you do, I think you have already done quite enough.” He punctuated the words with a roll of his hips and Steve let forth the tiniest whimper at the feeling. 

“Hey! I’m trying to get to the point here,” Steve groused.

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed there was one,” Bucky snarked back. 

Steve replied with a roll of his eyes before he settled back and tried again. 

“Buck- what I’m  _ trying _ to say is, I love you.” Steve let the words hang in the air for a moment and took a deep breath. 

He didn’t need Bucky to say it back or to even acknowledge he had said anything. Steve just needed his lover, his best friend, to know. 

But as always, Bucky left him speechless.

“I love you, Steve. I think I have for a long time.” 

Steve didn’t speak; he went straight for Bucky’s exposed throat, kissing hot trails down the skin. Steve was home in the arms of this man. This former  _ assassin  _ who had come into his life like a tidal wave and made a permanent impression on Steve’s entire being. Steve Rogers would never be the same, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to be. 

 

**EPILOGUE**

**1968**

The American people would always think it was Lee Harvey Oswald who killed JFK point-blank on that hot Dallas day.  Steve couldn’t find it in himself to feel any regret over it. Bucky hadn’t done anything on his own free will, and Steve would never dream of ruining the life Bucky had worked so hard to build for himself. The man was calm and full of life again, and Steve was the proudest he had ever been. His heart swelled to new heights at the sight of it all. Peggy had gotten Bucky a job at the paper as her assistant, which meant they got to chat all day while Steve tapped at his typewriter in the next room. But Bucky was close and safe and that was all Steve could ask for. 

They told Peggy one night in ‘65 about what Bucky had done. Bucky had handed her his file as he explained that he had assassinated the former president. She had cried and hugged them both tight for a long time until she deemed she’d had enough emotions for one evening. They had laughed at her, a small raft in the ocean that Steve and, more prominently, Bucky, had to swim through. She told them she loved them and left them with kind words as she always did. Steve had to wonder how he had become so lucky as to have her in his life. 

As Steve sat at the kitchen table with his coffee one April morning in 1968, he had the stunning realization that everything had fallen right into place. He turned his head to watch the love of his life exit their bedroom, his hair mussed and his face soft. Bucky pressed a kiss to Steve’s cheek before he poured his own cup of coffee. It was domestic and simple and Steve Rogers knew exactly what came next. 


End file.
